


Window

by fudanshichoro



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fudanshichoro/pseuds/fudanshichoro
Summary: The sound of the rain makes Len depressed.





	

Len stared at the falling rain collecting on the window outside. Depression wasn’t new to him, but during the times when the sun wasn’t out, during the times when he was--as a plant--supposed to be finding nourishment, he just found himself utterly empty.

It had been raining for two weeks, non-stop.

And Len had been less than bearable. His inability to feel more than one thing at once was coming back to bite him, his mood filling with apathy. Visitors were more often than not turned away. Even Broadcast, who was always a source of comfort, became alien and hard to talk to, and was closed off from him like the rest of the world.

Was Broadcast angry with him? The concerned texts have long since gone away, replaced only with the occasional message. It felt hollow. More hollow than Len’s breast. He stopped looking at his phone, and when Broadcast did stop by, Len lied and said he was too tired to hang out, he’d see Broadcast tomorrow.

And still, the rain continued, and tomorrow was forgotten, and Broadcast got busy with work, and Len was alone. Like he thought he wanted.

He sulked around the house, looking for anything to distract himself. The second floor had some animals on it. Maybe a cuddle with something furry would have him feeling more like himself.

The second floor does exactly that. He could feel his head set a little higher as he walked away from the animals, his shoulders un-hunched and his body a little lighter. He could maybe even text Broadcast and ask him to hang out!

Until he reaches the stairs, and he can hear the rain again. He shudders, cringes, and walks away from the path back down.

Len settles in a small bedroom far down the hall from the stairs, once he sees it’s a lot less full than the others. A few boxes stacked in the corner never hurt anybody, did they? No, not at all. Without the pitter-patter of the rain, he could even get some rest. So he pops his head off, rests it on the bed beside his body, and drifts into a hard sleep.

He’s awoken later by a noise. He’s not sure where it’s coming from or what it is, but it makes his thoughts spin out of control, makes his muscles go rigid. It makes his head hurt, his body hurt. He just wanted peace for a little while, was that so hard to ask?

Len pulls his head into his lap, hugs it tight, shields himself from whatever it is that is making that noise.

It’s then he notices the window of his room. Even when he was a young plant, freshly created, he had a fascination with what was outside. Absolutely nothing. Not even a glimmer of light. It was odd and new and strange, and he wanted to go, even if Mom warned him about what would happen to him out there.

And now, he feels a draw, and he stands and walks over to the window. As far as the eye can see, it’s nothing but black. The noise gets quieter as he approaches, and then there’s silence once he’s there. He wonders  if it would hurt to die out there. At least there wouldn’t be any rain.

He opens the window, and the hair on his arms stand on end.

He slings his legs over the edge, sits down on the windowsill, and clutches his head tight.

Would he really die? He was already dead. Hollow and heavy, and relying on a plant for his body to keep moving. He acted dead already. Turned everyone away and laid around doing absolutely nothing for weeks. Doing nothing was for dead men.

He scooted closer to the edge, body tensing up. Did he want to stop existing? He had a lot to exist for. He had a job. He had the animals. He even had the earthly animals that came to his door. He had Broadcast. Was death worth never seeing them again?

But there was nothing else for him. There was rain.

He rolls backwards off the windowsill into the room, clutching his head, gasping for air he didn’t need. He didn’t want to die. What was wrong with him! He couldn’t kill himself because of some _rain_!

Len rights himself, places his head in the air above his shoulders, and shuts the window. He’d call Broadcast, ask to go out. Or send him a letter. That always made him feel good.

He hobbles down to the first floor, sits his butt on the couch, and decides what he wants to write.


End file.
